Happy Feet

Thud. Scream. Hard feet running across the floor.

I open my eyes. I have woken in to a nightmare. My exhaustion begs me to deny it.

Thud. Scream. Slam.

I know the dimensions of their apartment as he throws her against every wall. I can no longer deny it.

I force myself awake and go down to the manager's office. I tell the manager that there is a domestic violence dispute above my apartment. We walk upstairs and we listen through the door. We can hear her crying. She tells me she will take care of it.

Silence. Sweet silence.

I run in to some of my neighbors. Turns out the landlord has confronted the wrong couple. They were wondering who reported them for domestic violence. I apologize telling them that there has been some sort of miscommunication.

Thud. Scream. Hard feet running across the floor.

There has been some sort of miscommunication. Her screams terrorize me and I am wide awake at 3:30 in the morning. He is torturing her. The police will get here too late. I know I must knock on their door. I put on my hooded sweater, so I can look bigger than I am. I think about grabbing a knife in case I need to defend myself. I decide it is a bad idea. I laugh to myself, "With my luck, I will trip and fall on it."

I leave my apartment. I feel my body shaking as I begin to walk up the stairs. The carpet is blood red with these strange flowers printed all over it. The flowers are twisted as if they grow under water. Thoughts are fleeting through my mind and I cannot hold on to a single one. What if he hurts me? What is on the other side of that door? What am I going to say?

I am standing in front of the door of apartment numer 10. 10 is the number of completion and I wondered what was complete and whole in this situation. My arm raises itself and knocks the door, despite my fear. I tell myself, he cannot see you afraid Kisha. I whisper a prayer, "Bless my tongue, bless my words God." I feel my spine straighten and I am in my full power. I knock again.

I hear steps of hesitant feet slowly walking towards the door. His steps become steady as bare feet touch wood. He opens the door and her whimpers reach my ears like the smell of microwaved popcorn in a small office. I quickly glance over him. Shirtless, his slender brown body is dressed in grey sweats. I lock eyes with him, despite his long black hair covering half of his face. His face shows no more than 25 years on the planet and his cheek bones and lips tell the story of Philipino ancestry. We stare at each other in silence for a moment. I tell him a whole story with my eyes. I tell him about the possibility of retribution for his actions. I tell him about my anger. I tell him about how wrong he is. I tell him that the story is coming to a close.

My mouth opens and words emerge. I say, "I want you to know that I hear what is happening. I am very concerned and if it doesn't stop, I am going to call the police and have you arrested." He does not flinch and says a very mellow and small, "Okay." I nod my head and he closes the door. I go back to my apartment. Silence. Sweet silence.

Thud. Slam. Crash.

Two days later, our pact is broken through the turning over of furniture. Her feet dig hard as she runs from one side of the apartment to another, like a caged animal. I run upstairs and he runs past me. I yell at him, "You gonna have to work that out man. Last chance." He does not respond, but continues to run down the stairs and out the door. I hesitate and knock on the door. Small feet full of fear walk toward the door. She opens the door and I greet her with compassionate eyes. My eyes tell her a story. I tell her the story of safety. I tell her the story of visibility in her pain. I tell her the story of the possibility of love without betrayal.

She is a small skinny white woman with long blond hair. She is shaking and her eyes are wide with disbelief. She is pale and her mouth is small with thin lips that tremble. I have seen her blue eyes before. Where? I search my mind. I realize that her eyes look just like the penguin in 'Happy Feet'. I look in them and I find innocence. Unlike the film, where the penguin finds redemption through his feet, the only footsteps that I had heard for her were ones of punishment. I search for words. I tell her, "I am sorry that this is happening to you." She says, "It wasn't like this before." It turns out that they had been dating for more than a year and all was well until she left her apartment and began living with him. That is when the isolation started.

He began to keep the keys so that she could not leave the apartment when he was not there. He started keeping her from getting a job and she began living in her pajamas. Her Lupus agitated under all of the stress, translated to her hair falling out in chunks. That is when she began to rationalize the situation. She tells me, "I ask him to go to therapy and he gets even angrier. I try to explain to him that this situation is not good for me." She has no place to go and is not sure what to do. It turns out both their names are on the lease and his own momma had thrown him out of the house while they were dating.

I listen patiently. I must build trust and take it slow. Let her get it out. Let her tell the story, so she can find her power in it. I must hold the space just long enough, but not too long. If I hold it too long, it will confirm that she is powerless to change the circumstance. If I open the door too quick, it will be traumatizing and she will run back in to the cage, because it is what she knows. Yes, I must open the blinds slowly, allowing her eyes to adjust.

She thinks it is her fault. I remember that. I tell her about surviving domestic violence. I tell her about thinking the good outweighs the bad, but that it doesn't. She covers her mouth, "I don't want him to go to jail." I tell her about the mixed bag of abuse. I tell her that she is compassionate and that the best thing she can do for him is to alllow him to have the consequences of his choices. It is how she can help him. I can't make him wrong or she will run. She says, "He doesn't hit me, he just pushes me." I tell her that in a healthy relationship, people don't push each other. No one has a right to push anyone. She looks stunned, lost in the myriad of complexities of abuse.

I remember. I hated him and I loved him. I wanted him and I wanted the abuse to stop. As many tiimes that I returned, I never liked it. I never wanted it. I wanted the good times that were in between. I wanted out from the guilt that he placed on me every time I tried to get out. I never wanted to be disloyal. In that hall of mirrors, it never occurred to me that I was the one being violated. She says, "He does sexual things to me." She covers her mouth and her body shakes. She says, "I think it turns him on." I feel sick to my stomach. I say, "So he does more than just push you. He violates you. Sweetie, you don't deserve that." She lowers her head and sobs uncontrollably.

I breathe. She snaps back, "I don't know what to do." She is 22 and alone. I say, "Are you ready to leave?" I tell her that leaving can be a process sometimes. It took me four years to get out. It took me four years to hit bottom. She says that she is, but I feel that she is not quite there. She is ready in the moment-when the pain is dense. It is okay, I can walk with her. I can be an ally in supporting her to stay alive while she walks through it. I default to my domestic violence training. She is not ready to go to a shelter. I ask her not to fight in the bathroom or kitchen, too much porcelaine and sharp instruments available to snuff out a life.

I ask her if she wants me to sit with her and the landlord to figure out if she can get him off the lease. She needed time to think about it. I give her my number. Too much is whirling in her head. I keep it simple. He left her with the key to the apartment building and apartment. I tell her, "Your job is to not let him in tonight. That is all you got to do and think about engaging the landlady to help you. There are people here to support you." She nods her head. She swares she will not let him in. "I have had enough", she says.

I wait all weekend and no phone call. I come home on Sunday and I see that a note is taped on top of the box of number ten. I tell myself to mind my own business, but I don't. I carefully open the note. It is the key to the front door. The note reads, "Baby, I hope you are feeling better. I am at the mall." I tape it back and smile. I remember. I go in to my apartment. The foot steps are light and happy. Light and happy like people under a tapestry in a rain storm. Temporary relief from a burning sun. She has happy feet as she walks a familiar trail to a dead end. I smile and think to myself, "Yes, I remember."